A/N Hi, welcome! This fic follows our beloved musketeers as they deal with several plots against the King and lots of hurt/comfort for d'Art! Really hope you enjoy :)
Chapter 1
"Steady, now." The Gascon came easily to his tongue, even now. Even after so long. "Steady, steady." D'Artagnan ran a slow hand along quivering muscles, as his mare flexed her neck and rolled forward a jerking step. His gloved hand tightened on the reins a fraction. "Easy, my girl." He murmured, and ran firm fingers beneath her mane. "You're doing well, steady now, for me."
Slowly, gradually, his great black mare began to calm. She stopped shifting like an unbalanced foal, and her head came up with less of an arch, ears pricking with interest rather than panic. He kept a hold of her torn reins, rolling up his stirrups and checking his girth. His hands ran along her belly, and he circled her carefully, but found now wounds. She tolerated a brief check of her legs, but pinned her ears anxiously when he went to lift a foot. "Fair enough, my girl." He told her, and she relaxed, huffing a little. She would be well enough for now, he'd have to check her more carefully when he made it back to camp. "Come along then, my girl."
Dahlia knickered softly, and nudged his shoulder. D'Artagnan rubbed her velvet nose, and sighed tiredly. "Let's find the rest of them, then." It was a poor path he'd followed to find Dahlia, broken twigs and torn hair caught at head height. She was tall, even compared to the stallions that the others road, but a loyal nature.
She mastered her fear to follow him back along the path she'd bolted through not long before. A fair walk, but he didn't want to test Dahlia's skill at throwing him a second time in one day. Even a musketeer's horse had her limits, as he'd been shown. A musket going off in her face, missing by barely inches, had startled her. The scream of a horse shot, had done the rest.
D'Artagnan limped along, hip aching from the fall, but they made fair time. He reached the main path, eyeing the small pools of blood left by their enemies, and headed north. He knew the others well enough to pick their campsite.
And he was proved right, ducking off the path at a subtle red piece of cloth, he disappeared into the trees. And within minutes, saw the welcome sight of a campfire.
"Ho." Called a low voice, and d'Artagnan paused.
"Just me." He tried to mask his exhaustion, but heard the low rasp he couldn't hide.
"Found her?" Porthos appeared in view, musket on his shoulder and expression fierce. "Well?"
"Well enough." D'Artagnan came to a stop at his side, and Dahlia tossed her head a touch nervously. Perhaps the welcome scent of the fire was prickling at her fear again. Reminding her of battles fought, instead of safe harbours. "Athos?"
"Well enough." Porthos echoed, dropping a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Through and through."
D'Artagnan felt something untwist in his chest, and he nodded. "Good."
"Hmm?" Porthos shot him a look, turning them slightly to the left, but not starting forward.
"I said, that's good?" D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow.
"Not speaking French, lad." Porthos replied, but shrugged. "C'mon, they're waiting."
"Sorry." D'Artagnan murmured, and then clicked his tongue. "C'mon, my girl." His mare tossed her head once, but there was a low nicker from up ahead. Musketeer horses were too well trained to neigh loudly if they'd been commanded to be quiet, but Dahlia's nostrils flared immediately. She led the way, d'Artagnan struggling to keep her in pace.
Porthos escorted him to the edge of the clearing, raising a quick hand, before disappearing back into the shadows.
"D'Artagnan." Athos twisted awkwardly to look at him, pupils dilated and face pale. "Found her?" He didn't slur, but it was entirely unlike him to ask such obvious questions.
"Thankfully." D'Artagnan replied, and crossed the clearing to tie Dahlia with the other three. There was an unfamiliar bay mare shifting nervously at the edge, but Dahlia ignored her to greet her herd mates instead. "Good girl." He murmured, and tied her carefully with the waiting line, swinging her saddle and bridle off with effort. He huffed a little, forced to set the saddle against his sore hip, but brought them to the fire. He'd need to figure out the bridle before tomorrow.
D'Artagnan barely glanced at their prisoner, tied and gagged on the far side of the fire, as he moved to crouch at Athos's side. "Alright?" He rested a hand to Athos's good shoulder, scanning him carefully.
"Fine." Athos told him, but Aramis gave him away, shifting anxiously as he fiddled with the cup and pot next to the fire. "I am." Athos repeated, sounding rather strained, and he shot Aramis a quick glare. It didn't land with any of its usual forcefulness, and his expression was altogether lacking of its usual focus.
"He will be." Aramis shrugged, scanning d'Artagnan rather carefully. "Anything hurt?"
"Bruises." D'Artagnan dismissed, but Aramis narrowed his eyes.
"You came off." Their healer commented, sounding strangely blank as he clearly tried to keep any judgement from his voice.
"I did." D'Artagnan squeezed Athos's shoulder again, and then shifted, tugging the cloak more tightly around their leader's shoulders. "Dahlia was too close to the horse that went down, and a musket went off in her face."
Aramis watched him again, brown eyes intent. "But presumably didn't clip her rider?" His words were tight, anxious.
"A scrape." D'Artagnan admitted, at last. He rolled his cloak off his shoulder, and raised his arm for inspection. Athos was shifting as if to look, but d'Artagnan caught the cut off gasp, and they all paused.
"I'll look at him." Aramis soothed, and offered the mug. "Have some more."
"I feel like I'm dreaming already, Aramis." Athos complained, but their healer just shook his head.
"You will be of more use to us tomorrow if you rest now." Aramis spoke with steady confidence, and Athos gave way, after a few more moments of silent complaint. "Here." Aramis passed across the mug, of no doubt drugged tea, and then stood to walk around him to d'Artagnan's side.
"Don't get any ideas." D'Artagnan told him softly, watching Athos sip at the mug a few times. Aramis was fiddling with his sleeve, helping him slip out of his outer layers, and hummed. "Aramis?"
"You did well to bind this."
"Porthos did." D'Artagnan replied, without thinking, and blinked as Aramis went still.
"He told me you weren't wounded." His tone was irritated.
"Barely." D'Artagnan dismissed. "Scouting?"
"Yes." Aramis glanced at Athos, and dipped his chin. "Can you-"
D'Artagnan reached out with his good arm, catching the mug from loose fingers before it could spill. Athos's head came up sharply, and he blinked, "A'mis-" he mumbled, sounding confused, and d'Artagnan cupped his shoulder again. There was a time when he wouldn't have dared to be so familiar, but those months were long gone, now.
"Rest, Athos." He said, lowly. "We are on guard."
Athos's chin slipped lower, and then his eyes closed.
"Good." Aramis sighed. "He wouldn't rest until you returned."
"Forgive me the delay." D'Artagnan murmured, a thread of guilt winding through his chest.
"That was not what I meant." Aramis scolded quietly, and set about cleaning the scrape on his right arm with gentle focus. D'Artagnan did not allow the stinging pain to cross his face, and his eyes wandered to their guest.
"Our guest?" D'Artagnan could see the shine of the man's dark eyes. The spy, that had cost them dearly to re-capture.
"Well enough." Aramis was dismissive, but inclined his chin a touch. Injured then, d'Artagnan translated, but not badly. Their spy spoke French, English, Gascon and Spanish. None of their shared languages, though of course the others spoke no Gascon, were safe. "Almost done, my friend."
D'Artagnan realised he'd been starting to lean further away from Aramis, and forced himself to straight. "Sorry." He murmured, and exhaustion tugged at his words. "The watch?"
"Porthos, and then-"
"Me." D'Artagnan interrupted, firmly. "I'll rest for a time, but you must rest through. Athos will require your care."
Aramis hesitated, but he was already bandaging the fairly minor wound, and in the end gave way. "Alright. Do you need anything to sleep?"
"No need." D'Artagnan smiled tiredly in gratitude. "Thank you, my friend."
"Of course." Aramis squeezed his shoulder gently, and d'Artagnan almost smiled again, at how each of them copied one another with the action. "Get some rest. Wake me if you change your mind."
"Thank you." D'Artagnan murmured, and leaned back against his saddle. He couldn't be bothered to fetch his bedroll, and drew up his cloak instead. He heard Aramis helping Athos to settle more comfortably on the bedroll someone had rolled out for him, and closed his eyes.
The flames flickered warmly behind them, and for a time, he relived the gut freezing moment that Dahlia had disappeared from beneath him.
He'd been left stranded and alone, after a desperate charge to scatter their attackers, and lucky in truth to walk away with only the superficial wound.
He didn't realise when his memories became confused dreams, nor when he drifted away into true rest.
A hand on his shoulder, and d'Artagnan woke with a jerk of panic. His hand came up clumsily to guard his face, and then-
Porthos was crouched beside him, expression patient and steady. "Jus' me." He murmured, and d'Artagnan swallowed. He must have laid down at some stage, curled into his cloak on the soft ground. "Alright?"
"Fine." D'Artagnan muttered, and rolled upright. "Forgive me."
"You were dreaming." Porthos replied softly, still crouching beside him, and it was as gentle an invitation as the broad man was capable of.
"Get some rest." D'Artagnan told him, swinging his cloak back on as he tightened the belt that held his heavy weapons. He checked instinctively on their guest, but he was asleep, hands bound behind him.
"Not been causing trouble." Porthos confirmed. "You alright until dawn?" The large man had leaned back, coming off his knees to a position that would be far harder to roll up from. Something in d'Artagnan's head relaxed.
"I'll be fine." D'Artagnan confirmed, and nodded once. "Rest well, my friend." And he buckled his sword on quietly, coming to his feet. The weight of Porthos watched him go was a heavy one, but d'Artagnan ignored it as best he could, ducking to check on their prisoner who startled awake with a jerk.
"Forgive me." D'Artagnan muttered thinly, tugging at the man's bindings. He didn't reply, still gagged, but his eyes promised retribution if he was ever freed.
D'Artagnan came to his feet, glancing back at Porthos, who was throwing his cloak over his back and rolling onto his side. He paced out of the clearing, and slipped into the darkness.
D'Artagnan kept Athos balanced as his stallion shifted, "Steady." He ordered, and Midnight ducked his head a little more obediently. "Are you certain you can ride alone?" D'Artagnan knew the answer likely to come, but still felt the need to ask it.
"Yes." Athos murmured. "Get me up there before Aramis comes back."
"Stubborn." D'Artagnan muttered, and Athos shot him a look.
"Gascon." Athos replied tartly, arching an eyebrow, and d'Artagnan hid a smile.
"Ready, then?"
"Ready." Athos confirmed, and d'Artagnan bent to help bounce him into the saddle.
Midnight shifted nervously as he settled in the sattle, but Athos gathered up the reins in one hand.
"If you come off, you'll be joining me on Dahlia." D'Artagnan warned him, hand pressing against the tall stallion's neck. In truth, d'Artagnan would likely have to join Athos on his horse. Dahlia was tall enough to bear him, with his long legs, but she was a finer horse than many in the regiment and the weight of two would slow her down.
"I do not fall of my horse." Athos sounded rather stiff, and d'Artagnan met his gaze. There was a glimmer of amusement there. "Unlike Gascon farm boys, apparently."
"Once." D'Artagnan sighed. "I've fallen off Dahlia precisely once. After I was shot."
"Your arm?" Athos asked, though Midnight shifted a step to the side, his hand remained relaxed on the reins.
"Steady, my lad." D'Artagnan murmured, and the stallion fell still. "My arm is fine."
"You can ride behind me, if you need to." Athos teased, with an entirely flat tone, and d'Artagnan snorted. He would have missed it, perhaps even a few months ago, but he heard it now.
"I'll keep it in mind." He clicked his tongue, as Athos's mount tossed his head anxiously. "Bear your rider safely." Midnight settled.
"Speaking 'is witching tongue?" Porthos appeared, leading the remaining horses, and Athos snorted softly.
"I would perhaps mind his interference, if only it wasn't so effective." Athos's one arm was bound to his side, and he had no spare hand to soothe his horse. But he loosened his reins a touch more, and stroked the great neck.
"I'll help Aramis." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, and departed back towards the campfire. In his mind, the sooner they dropped the costly spy to others, the sooner they could rest. And d'Artagnan felt the need to rest pressing against him.
The last few weeks of of their hunt had been long ones. And they'd come fairly far South, in their hunt. Further than d'Artagnan had been, since riding these roads with his Father from Gascony, over a year and a half before.
Toulouse was still a week or two away, and Gascony days beyond that, but it was closer than he'd been in years. And his nerves were stinging with it. With the nearness. With his fear that seemed to mount with every mile south they rode.
A stupid, old fear.
"Thank you, d'Artagnan." He looked up, and Aramis was pressing the stiff and irritated prisoner into his care. "I'll be along in a moment. Tie him to the bay, once he is up."
"Of course." His mouth moved, and the words came, but d'Artagnan had not even planned to say them. His exhaustion and stinging nerves were pressing against him. He'd refused to wake Aramis for his watch last night, and now the lack of rest was costing him.
"Your arm?" Aramis paused to check.
"Fine." D'Artagnan could barely feel it. "Thank you."
Every mile north eased something in d'Artagnan's chest.
I must return to Gascony, to bury my father. And care for the farm.
And what if you did not?
"D'Artagnan?"
Someone gripped his reins, and D'Artagnan jerked, his mount dancing beneath him as she obeyed the sharp nudge of his knees. His hand dropped to his hilt, and then he went still.
Aramis was holding out his one hand, the other tight on his own reins as his stallion tossed his head nervously. "Easy, my friend." Their healer coached, lowly. His dark eyes were soft with concern. "Are you well? Forgive me, Porthos found an ideal place to stop ahead."
"Of course." D'Artagnan swallowed back the jolt of panic with fierce stubbornness. "Forgive me."
Aramis studied him a moment longer, before nodding. "It is not far."
Dahlia kept pace with Aramis's mount with very little prompting, and Athos and Porthos were far enough ahead that d'Artagnan hoped they had missed his moment of panic.
It would be a waste, for you to return to Gascony. The good you could do here, as a Musketeer-
Nobody can promise me a commission.
We will train you.
Truly, I could stay? And not return to Gascony?
You must do as you will, d'Artagnan. But yes, we would all have you stay.
They rode into the Garrison some weeks later, exhausted and saddlesore. They had relinquished their spy into Richelieu's care, and d'Artagnan felt the press of tiredness weighing at him.
Athos slid from his mount stiffly, and Aramis was there to catch his arm.
"Welcome back." Treville greeted, and several stable boys appeared to hold their horses. "Report to my office, men."
The four of them traipsed up the steps, and Musketeers at training paused to greet them, watching them climb. D'Artagnan kept a very subtle hand on Porthos's wrist, and Aramis was in step with Athos.
Their spy had attempted an escape only two days from Paris, startling the horses, and Porthos had been the one to fall this time. D'Artagnan had ridden the man down in seconds, and circled back to find Porthos on his feet, though lame and bruised.
"What news?" Treville settled at his desk, and nodded his head at the empty chairs in offer.
Surprisingly, Porthos sank into one. He had a pained expression on his face, and Aramis moved to the chair beside him. Athos hesitated, but Porthos looked uncomfortable, and d'Artagnan followed his lead as they all sank into chairs.
If Treville was surprised his offer had been taken, potentially for the first time ever, he hid it well. "What news?" He scanned them all carefully. "Injuries?"
"Balon is back with Richelieu." Athos began, voice steady though he was pale. His wound had festered on the road, and Aramis had had a hard time keeping him well enough to ride. "We caught him before he could send word to those on the border. He did not make it beyond Bourges."
"His aim was Gascony?" Treville asked thoughtfully, tilting his head. His eyes flicked to d'Artagnan, who kept his expression blank, and back towards his Lieutenant.
"We believe so." Athos murmured. "The border, at least. But we know he had friends somewhere in Gascony, waiting for him, from the men Richelieu questioned initially."
"And the letters he carried?" Treville leaned forward on his desk, eyes sharp with concern.
"Safely with Richelieu, as well." Athos replied, smoothly.
Treville's eyebrows lowered. "And," his tone became something sharp. "Their contents?"
"As to that," Athos shrugged casually, and d'Artagnan could see the casualness of the Comte that so rarely shone through. "I am afraid that I do not read Gascon."
Slowly, almost as if against his will, Treville's gaze flicked to d'Artagnan.
He had to resist the urge to twitch or duck back, but instead inclined his head a fraction, and Treville relaxed. "Very well," the Captain said, nodding slightly. "I expect your written report by the end of tomorrow." It was generous. "I must speak with d'Artagnan a moment more."
The other three men rose, and Treville's gaze tracked them. "Go to the infirmary, all three of you." He ordered, and there was a breath when d'Artagnan knew the three of them considered arguing. When they didn't, Treville gestured more sharply. "Your lack of argument tells me everything I need know." He told them, eyes scanning quickly. "How long do you need?"
"Athos's shoulder wound will need some time until he is fully fit, but the rest should take only be a day or two of rest." Aramis said, and then his eyes flicked towards d'Artagnan. "D'Artagnan should be fit enough by tomorrow, once he has had some rest."
"Very well." Treville agreed. "Thank you for your service. Dismissed." The three older men rose, shooting looks back at d'Artagnan, before disappearing through the door. It closed with careful quietness after them, and d'Artagnan didn't allow himself to tense.
He trusted Treville.
He did.
His fluttering heart would have given him away, were Treville to feel for his pulse. He heard a low murmur from the window, and his heart slowed. At least Porthos was waiting, then. Probably all of them. He hadn't heard the steps on the stairs.
"This discussion goes no further. You will not speak of it to anyone, including the King, even if he asks." Treville's expression was grave. "I never asked this question, nor did you answer it." He paused, then continued, "Nor did Athos order you to translate any letters for him."
"Of course, sir." D'Artagnan murmured grimly, feeling a wave of nausea at the thought Treville was truly questioning his loyalty.
"I say this only because I have to." Treville reassured him, without naming his fear. "Tell me." He leaned forward, hands clasping together.
"The letters were addressed to Alain Periz." D'Artagnan started, dropping his voice. "Balon wrote to confirm his presence at a meeting in Agen, to discuss the invasion at the border, and the push North." D'Artagnan still felt cold, even weeks after first reading the words.
"Very well." Treville didn't flinch. "Why Gascony?" He watched d'Artagnan steadily.
It helped, a little, that Treville was so calm.
D'Artagnan took a deep breath, and continued. "Balon bragged in the first letter that the people of Gascony did not mind any business that might harm the King, as long as they disguised themselves to avoid being found out as Spanish."
"They were plotting an upheaval in Gascony?" Treville's expression was tense.
"Balon believed that it would take little to cause trouble, to cause an uprising." d'Artagnan kept his tone calm. "And the reply he carried from Periz spoke of several contacts within the community, who minded not that they did Spanish work, as long as it damaged the King."
Treville exhaled a little roughly, eyes dropping away to the side, as if something had occurred to him. D'Artagnan waited, until his Captain nodded. "Go on, d'Artagnan." He encouraged, softly.
"Periz told Balon that the people of Gascony were ready to rise against the taxes, and such." D'Artagnan swallowed the thread of illness that trembled in his chest. He had known he'd have to report this. Why did he feel so guilty? "Periz spoke of contacts there, that would help them. That his contacts did not mind to help the Spanish, if they damaged the King."
"Go on."
"He spoke of drawing the King's attention to Gascony, to avoid any attention at the border with Spain." D'Artagnan went on and on, reciting the letters from memory, because the words had certainly circled his mind enough these last weeks. They had gone no further south than Tours, and yet his heart had been pulling him towards Gascony.
I must return to Gascony, to bury my father. And care for the farm.
And what if you did not?
By the end, his throat was dry. His head was aching again. He had been stricken by headaches these past few weeks, because he was sleeping so poorly. Aramis had worried over him, but kept silent at d'Artagnan's request.
The people of Gascony are ready to rise up against their King. Some few men in Gascony will help us achieve our goals, regardless of our true motives.
"Thank you, D'Artagnan." Treville studied him carefully. "You have not been home to Gascony, since arriving in Paris."
"Paris is my home now, sir." D'Artagnan came to his feet, sensing the dismissal coming and eager for it despite himself. "Do you need anything further?"
Treville watched him for several heartbeats. "No. Only to say that your efforts for the King are appreciated."
"Thank you, sir." D'Artagnan murmured, and turned to go. His hand landed on the handle, and he paused.
There was expectant silence behind him, and then the shift of leather. Treville leaning back in his chair, perhaps. The hair on his neck was rising. He'd not felt this unsettled in Treville's company since first coming to Paris. To have him at his back, without d'Artagnan having eyes on him, was more uncomfortable than he was willing to admit.
"D'Artagnan?" It was low, perhaps even a touch cautious.
"Periz is likely correct." D'Artagnan admitted, softly enough that Treville likely would have to strain to hear him. "That some in Gascony might revolt, given the chance."
Treville remained silent.
D'Artagnan found himself turning, unable to bear the eyes on his back, to meet his Captain's gaze once more. "I travelled here with my Father to petition the King." Treville must already know this. The others had, at least. It hurt to speak of, but he forced himself on. "The taxes have crippled Gascony. The land has suffered several bad years, drought did much damage."
D'Artagnan blinked, and for a moment he saw the stretching green hills and far off mountains. The breeze that swept through the window was not cool Parisian wind, but warm Gascon air. He closed his eyes for a split second, and blinked away the past. "There is likely true danger there. The threats should not be dismissed."
Treville tilted his head, and then nodded very slightly. "Thank you, d'Artagnan." He was still calm. Gascony might revolt, but Treville was calm. "I will speak with the King."
"They do not deserve to be beaten back for this, not when they have not yet committed a crime." D'Artagnan released the door handle, facing his captain more firmly. His heart was racing, his instincts telling him to run, but he kept his place out of sheer stubbornness. "They would come, representatives, if the King offered to hear them. I know they would come, Captain." Desperation tainted his words, now, and he could feel the effect. The panic that waited at the door, ready with the dark memories that had been so loud these past weeks, fighting against the guilt that forced him to speak out anyway.
I must return to Gascony-
And what if you did not?
Treville studied him again, far longer than he had before.
Guilt was forcing his tongue loose, and d'Artagnan knew that Treville would see it. He was like Athos. He missed nothing.
And what if you did not?
"Go and rest, d'Artagnan." Treville told him, softly. "Trust in your captain now, and trust in your King. You can have a day's leave. Return tomorrow."
D'Artagnan dipped his chin very slightly. "Thank you, Captain."
And what if you did not?
He ignored the three men waiting, slipping past them.
"D'Artagnan-" Aramis called, but he did not look back. He was down the steps far more quickly than any of the other three would manage. He had seen enough to know that Aramis would not let Porthos's arm go, and Athos could not run after him like he might have.
"I'll return tomorrow." He spun, looking up at the balcony where all three men were still frozen, but did not stop moving. Retreating. Backing away. "Rest well, and I'll see you tomorrow." And then he was gone, slipping into the crowded streets, ignoring Aramis's last frustrated yell. None of the other Musketeers in the Garrison interfered, though Pierre on the gate shot him a concerned look that he ignored.
I must return to Gascony-
And what if you did not?
Guilt trailed his footsteps, and the words swam through his head.
And what if you did not?
He remembered an early battle, Aramis swinging an arm around his shoulders. Too brave this Gascon, not sensible enough to count his enemies before striding in- and the marksman had been laughing, teasing him for his Gascon stubbornness, Porthos joining in. Athos had even smiled, pleased at his progress though irritated at his foolhardiness.
You would not say I'm brave, he half wanted to admit, if you knew I've run away.
D'Artagnan slipped through the streets of Paris, disappearing into the crowd, and knew history was repeating itself.
And what if you did not?
D'Artagnan stumbled, knocked by a passing man who swore at him viciously but did not bother to pursue him, and came to a halt at the head of a dark alley. He had not ever imagined that if he avoided returning to face his fate in Gascony, it might still show up to find him in Paris.
He needed a drink. And solitude.
D'Artagnan sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He didn't truly desire solitude. Already his back felt empty, without sharp eyes to watch it.
He glanced around, startled to see he had already come so far in his blind panic. He was a fool, to run. He was always running.
Enough of it, for now. D'Artagnan whistled, catching the attention of a young boy crouched across the way, watching a cart go past with calculating eyes. The child approached him cautiously, eyes flicking to d'Artagnan's pauldron and way.
"You know Porthos?" He tapped the fleur-de-lis pointedly on his shoulder.
"Maybe." The young boy had an intelligent expression. "Wh't'd'ya'want?"
"Carry a message to Porthos," D'Artagnan showed him the coin in his hand. "One now, one from Porthos." Hopefully his friends would not mind him extending their generosity, for the word the child brought. "Find Porthos at the Garrison, tell him you have a message from d'Artagnan." The dark haired boy nodded eagerly. "D'Artagnan can be found at the Stork, on the Rue Saint-Honoré."
"I'm to find Porthos at the Garrison, from D'Artagnan, the Stork, on Rue Saint-Honoré." He recited neatly, eyes fixed on the shimmer in d'Artagnan's palm.
"Go." D'Artagnan flipped the child his reward, and watched him dart out into the crowd, dodging people and carts with equal reckless abandon. It would take the child half an hour, at least, to gain access to Porthos.
D'Artagnan strode down the road, grateful for the fading light, to duck his head more deeply into his cloak. He was confident that Aramis would be the only one to pursue him. He half hoped that Athos and Porthos would already be resting, when the message came.
Time enough for a few drinks, before Aramis came to give more sensible advice.
And what if you did not?